


All Gates, All Opportunities

by antumbral



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Free Agency, Gen, Stress, deadlines, hockey players curse like sailors, video games - Freeform, waiting games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:31:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny and Patrick deal with the free agency deadline in their own way. Mostly, it involves booze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Gates, All Opportunities

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2009, shortly before the free agency deadline and before Kane and Toews had announced their new contracts. 'DT' is Dale Tallon, the General Manager for the Hawks at the time.

_“The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck.”_ \- Ralph Waldo Emerson"

*

Toews shows up at eight in the morning bearing a shopping bag, a cooler, and a backpack. In the shopping bag is a 12-pack of PBR. In the backpack is a laptop, a bottle of Grey Goose, and a bottle of Everclear in case the vodka isn't strong enough. In the cooler is another 12-pack of beer -- this one Corona, Kaner's drink of choice -- and a plastic baggie containing a substance that is most definitely _not_ oregano.

Pat Kane opens the door still wearing a t-shirt and boxers, dark circles under his eyes and hair standing up in messy curls. A moment to look Jonny up and down, and he turns and plods back into the house without saying anything. Jonny follows.

The living room is a mess, the ratty-but-comfortable couch pushed back against the wall to make more room in the middle of the floor. Cords criss-cross the space, leading to two televisions that Jonny recognizes from the guest bedroom and the exercise room, respectively. They're sitting on either side of the enormous flatscreen that serves as the usual living room TV. More cords emerge from Kaner's laptop on the floor, leading to a messy tangle on a power strip near the wall. All the screens are broadcasting sports networks, and all are muted. They won't need the sound to watch the scrolling ribbons that will be the first source of news if anything important happens.

Kaner settles back down in the nest of blankets and pillows he's made for himself in front of the laptop. Jonny plugs his own laptop into the power strip and seats himself nearby with a huff of exhaustion, positioned so that he can see Kaner's screen and vice versa.

"They re-signed Ovechkin. It came out a few minutes ago." Kaner scratches his nose and yawns. "You heard from your guys yet?"

Jonny shakes his head, occupied with booting up the computer and locating the relevant websites for tracking trade progress. Kaner elbows him. "Oh. Yeah, well, they're never going to let him go if they can help it, yeah? And no, the agent hasn't called since last night. I told you then --"

"Yeah," says Kaner. "No change here either."

"Oh." Jonny rises and crosses to the backpack, pulling out his cellphone and placing it carefully beside the laptop. "Well, I brought supplies if we need them." He indicates the booze, then pauses. "They'll pick us up. Don't worry."

Kaner flops back onto his pillows, a compact arch of spine. "Easy for you to say, Mister 'most complete package in the sport for his age'." A sniff of laughter that doesn't even try to approximate genuine amusement. "I still say you must have blown the SI editors to get that one to print."

"Blame Kempanaar, man, I had nothing to do with that shit. But it's not like you have anything to worry about, they're not going to give up their leading scorer for some stupid contract terms that won't matter a year from now."

Kaner turns his head on the pillow to look at Jonny instead of the ceiling. "The blogs have me as expendable if you want money and they have to pick between us."

"The blogs don't have to be on the ice with you. Fuck 'em. DT knows how much you matter out there."

Pause. "Yeah." It doesn't sound as convinced as it should, but neither of them feel inclined to mention it.

Across the bigscreen in the middle of the trio of televisions, ESPN shows a fat man demonstrating fly fishing. The black strip across the bottom of the screen is concentrating on baseball. Jonny can feel the tension building across the back of his shoulders, but there isn't anything to be done about it. The phone remains stubbornly silent.

For the next two hours, they watch the TVs and flip between blogs, watching the last-minute signings to tie down players before the feeding frenzy begins: Beauchemin, Scuderi, Draper.

"Hey, we've got Duncs back." Jonny points to the lefthand TV and Kaner looks up at the screen to read the newstape as it flashes by.

"Wonder if that means they're close to a deal on us."

"Dunno."

"I need to be more drunk for this." Jonny reaches for the vodka and Kaner pats around for a cup before holding out an empty Coke can. Jonny pours carefully into it and hands it back to him, then takes a swig from the bottle without bothering to find a cup. His face screws up with the burn of it straight, but a measure of the tension leaches out of his arms. Kaner imitates him, tossing back a swallow from the Coke can and shaking his head at the heat in his throat. Jonny pours some more for him and takes another gulp himself before glancing up at the big screen again. Kaner lays back and stares at the ceiling, solemn.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Jonny himself has stayed awake the whole night. He'd tried to sleep at first, but the nerves kept him edgy and tossing about, so eventually he'd given up on the effort.

"Nah," Kaner says, and Jonny nods to show he understands.

"I couldn't sleep and couldn't sleep, and eventually I just said fuck it and came over here. Might as well be miserable together."

Kaner gives a grunt of acknowledgment. "I kinda figured you'd show up eventually if they held out on you like they were with me."

Jonny reaches over, steals a pillow from the stack Kaner made for himself, and shoves it under his head when he too lays back to look at the ceiling. "I brought weed," he says after a long while.

"I don't want to move," Kaner says, somewhere between a moan and a whine, and that's the end of that idea. They're quiet for a while longer before Kaner sits up and consults the computer.

"No change?"

Kaner shakes his head and lets himself fall over sideways, wiggling until he's near a pillow again.

Eleven o' clock.

Eleven thirty, and they don't say a word. Jonny opens a new window on his laptop for messageboards, and watches glassy-eyed as the gossip of the league flies hot and heavy in anticipation.

Lazy and worn as they both are, the weariness starts to fall away at eleven thirty-five, and by five minutes until noon they're both alert and strung out with tension. Jonny has one hand unconsciously on his phone, waiting for it to ring, and Kaner eyes his own phone nervously.

They both know the instant that it turns twelve. Jonny sees the numbers flip on his laptop and looks up at Kaner, who is staring back at him wide-eyed. Jonny can read sleep deprivation and tension and adrenaline on his face, and lurking at the back of his eyes where neither one of them will acknowledge it, fear. His own expression is a mirror of the same emotions, and behind Kaner's head all he can see is the two zeros on the TV screens.

Their eyes meet for three seconds before Jonny's phone rings. The caller ID shows Jeremy Jacobs, the owner of the Bruins. Kaner's phone rings only a second later: Terry Murray from the LA Kings. Jonny's thumb hovers over the answer button for a moment before he glances at Kaner and puts the phone down, still ringing.

"You gonna answer it?" Kaner asks, ignoring the insistent sound of his own ringtone.

Jonny shakes his head. "If they're serious they'll call my agent. He can handle it. I don't think I want to deal with all the bullshit."

Kaner nods and by silent agreement they don't answer any of the fifty-three calls that follow once the first callers give up.

One 'clock. Two o'clock.

The messageboards have caught wind of the fact that no one can get either of the Blackhawks' youngest stars on the phone, and are speculating furiously about what that might mean. Jonny elbows Kaner. "Hey, this one's got me going to the Penguins for practically spare change. I don't know whether to be grateful they think the Republic of Crosby would want me or insulted at the number they think they'd want me for."

"Currently I'm apparently trying to play the Habs off the Rangers to raise my cap hit. How do they get this stuff when we're not even answering the phone?"

Jonny shrugs. "I'm gonna go pee."

"Hey, bring chips when you come back."

Three o'clock. They're done with the chips before the blockbuster Malkin trade is announced, and they spend the next half-hour wondering what Shero was smoking and puffing thoughtfully at a joint of their own, which they share between them. The pot doesn't help much with the growing cloud of unease in the room.

"Maybe we should call the agents," Jonny says. "They could at least tell us where the talks are at right now."

"You call yours first. Mine has been a little scary the past week, I have a feeling if I called him now he might keel over or something."

Jonny picks up his phone and presses ignore on the latest person trying to talk to him, then dials the number for his contract rep. Kaner watches closely.

"Yeah, hey man... Yeah... Yeah, I've just been hanging out with Kaner, watching the news... No, it's fine. Look, we were wondering what the hold-up is for our contracts --" Jonny cocks his head to one side and rolls his eyes. Kaner makes an obscene gesture with his hand and his tongue in his cheek and Jonny nods agreement. "Yeah... Well, that's nice, but I don't want to get exiled to -- ... No. Look dude, just talk with the Hawks, okay? I'm not going anywhere else until they give me a definite no, and it sounds like they're still --"

They both frown at the phone and Jonny gives a frustrated snort. "Well why haven't you? If that's all it will take, duct-tape Tallon to a chair somewhere and you and him and Kaner's people get in a room and hash it out. This doesn't have to be so damn complicated... Yes... Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you to do." Jonny raises an eyebrow at Kaner, who is making frantic hand gestures. "And tell Kaner's people that he says the same thing. Either that or he's miming that he's a hooker with a bondage fetish, but... No, no I was kidding, Christ you people have no sense of humor. Kaner agrees with me, I agree with him, so can we just get this done?... Yes... Yes, fine. Look man, you go do your thing. I just don't want to be waiting that much longer and wondering if I'm gonna play next year... No, okay, bye."

Jonny throws the phone down in disgust, and it bounces off a pillow to land forlornly amidst the cords. "He says they were waiting to see what the offers were from other people so that the Hawks might give us more money. I told him to just hurry up and get the deal done."

"I just want to play here," Kaner says quietly, and Jonny bumps him lightly on the knee with one fist.

"We will. If we don't have a deal by six I'll call Tallon myself and work something out."

Four o'clock. The blogs have Jonny considering an eight million a year offer from Arizona, and Kaner retiring to a monastery in Slovakia.

They've managed to demolish well over half the two 12-packs, another joint, and three boxes of Thai takeout from Kaner's refrigerator. Jonny rearranges the DVDs on the wall in a fit of nervous energy, while Kaner watches bemused from his nest on the floor. They line up the empty beer bottles and take turns tossing popcorn kernels to see if they can get one in. Eventually they just toss the popcorn at each other.

At four forty-eight, Kaner's phone rings. Jonny's rings immediately after, and they answer in unison. After three minutes of listening to minutia about charity appearance clauses and equipment safety guarantees, Jonny presses mute on his phone and leans over to say, "Five more years."

Kaner grins at him and nods, holding up his free hand. They give each other high fives and Kaner rolls his eyes at his phone. "No man, I was totally listening to you. One-fucking-hundred percent. You were talking about clauses or some shit."

Jonny unmutes his own phone, and is glad to hear that his agent is still rattling on, unaware that his client has no idea what he's been saying.

The next few hours are spent tying up loose ends on the contracts with the agents and lawyers, talking to Tallon about how they're just glad to stay, talking to their mothers about longterm living arrangements, talking to Sharpie about getting the team together with the new guys who are coming in and having a party, talking to Hossa about how how ancient he'll be when they're up for contracts again. At five o'clock the blogs still have Jonny signing on for twenty years with the Oilers and Kaner quitting hockey to join the space program, but they pick up the contract news fifteen minutes later and Kaner watches, gratified, as the Blackhawks fans all seem to be happy they're staying. He switches off the TVs, which makes the room seem still after seeing the moving images all day.

When the flurry of activity dies down and all the lawyers are happy with the arrangements, Kaner buries his phone under a pillow and smashes his face into the top of it.

"I know, man," Jonny commiserates, and they wage a brief but vicious war for the best blankets before curling up across from one another, both wrapped up like mummies in the blankets they managed to claim.

"Five more years," says Jonny, happy, and Kaner answers with a snore, already asleep.


End file.
